


Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by PainInTheAsgardian (Tenshiryuu)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 15:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenshiryuu/pseuds/PainInTheAsgardian
Summary: Crowley is not impressed with Heaven.





	Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> I just had a lot of feels watching this scene ok.

He didn’t remember it being this… cold. Sterile. Soulless. _This_ was Heaven? These were the sort of beings that Aziraphale had been forced to deal with all these millennia? These were the ones he’d once called siblings? Oh, how high and mighty they thought themselves! And to think that he’d used that term to describe a petulant Aziraphale! Crowley glared out of blue eyes that were not his own. The venom in his gaze didn’t befit the angel whose guise he wore, the fleece that hid the wolf beneath, but he knew, _he knew_, they wouldn’t notice it. They didn’t pay enough attention to the angel to see that anything was off. They didn’t know a blessed thing about Aziraphale, and weren’t about to start now. Why would they? Soon they’d be **rid **of him for good.

Or so they thought.

It took all his restraint to not hiss at his captors as they dragged him along, under no pretense of care for his person. The hallway stretched on. It was amazing, how **suffocating **this place felt, even if the sparkling _perfect _halls were empty. He couldn’t help the snarl that curled his lip, nose wrinkling in disdain. Hell stunk. Like sulphur, and choking smoke, and the unwashed masses. It was dark, and crowded, and disgusting, but Crowley could see Heaven wasn’t much better, just the opposite sort of oppressing. It was open, yes, but empty._Terrifyingly _so. And it stunk too, that unnerving antiseptic smell like one found in hospitals, to cover up the unpleasantness that everyone knew was there. It burned his nostrils, and he hated it. The smell, the gleaming hallways. It was **fake**. At least Hell didn’t hide what it was.

He was shoved into a chair and bound. Real creative, that. Not even a decent chair, one of those wheeled uncomfortable things found growing in cubicles across the world. He flashed Gabriel a tight, humorless grin, though the urge to shift and sink his **fangs **into that hand was strong. No, he was trusted to play this part. If all went as they’d discussed, then they could be free. At least for a century or two. 

“You could have just sent a message.” At least he’d had ages of feigning a casual tone. Gabriel was clearly proud of himself. **Pride**, wasn’t that a _deadly sin? _He _did _grin, if only for a second. 

_And I bet you didn’t see this one coming?_

Crowley scoffed internally. _Yes, if my mind was as dull as yours, then I suppose the obvious path is a stroke of absolute genius_. Did Gabriel _really _think his little idea was so **clever**? The look on the Archangel’s face said _yes_. _Aw_, they had even invited one of the lesser demons to come topside. How sweet. No doubt that was all they could get, all of the higher ups wanted to be present for his _own _extinction. Apparently Aziraphale didn’t even warrant _that _honor, Michael themself was joining the demon Crowley’s farewell party. Shame, and this one was so _flashy_! He had to admit, the fire tornado was eye-catching. At least it added some color and warmth to the place.

What **surprised** him, more than the cold glares of the three gathered, more than the haughty dismissal of his words, was that _this was it_. Gabriel said they were meant to make examples out of traitors. But there was no one around to see this. Hell would be making a **show **of it. There were always souls wandering around, it was impossible to escape them. But Heaven? There were no lesser angels or ascended souls gathered. Perhaps they were broadcasting it somehow, but Crowley had a sneaking suspicion that they weren’t. That this was it. 

No **trial**, no _audience_, no chance to explain himself to the Almighty. They weren’t making an example of Aziraphale for The Greater Good, they were doing it for _themselves_. To think that the angel had been hellbent on keeping up appearances for this lot for more than 6000 years. At least now he understood why Aziraphale saying _there will be paperwork_ was such a **terrible **thing. Paperwork and having to be _talked at_ by these beings.

“Well, lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a **better **occasion.” _Oh_, that hurt. There were so many other choice words he’d love to hurl at them, but for Aziraphale’s sake Crowley held his forked tongue. He **had **to get through this, and he knew in this moment that he would do _everything _in his power to ensure that his angel **never **had to set foot in this place again.

**They didn’t deserve him.**

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already.”

_Oh_, he nearly **broke **at that. Crowley was not a fighter. He never was. He was a _creator_, and because of that the Great War had left him **broken**. But now he had an inkling of what a warrior’s soul felt like, _something _burning in his chest brighter than the pillar of Hellfire roaring in front of him. **No one**, no one not even the Archangel-Fucking-Gabriel, could speak to _his _angel like that. Oh, how he wanted to drive his fist into that idiotic grin. Weren’t angels supposed to be all about _love_? Whatever happened to that? Another sham. This whole place was. And that was why, instead of striking, he _smiled _again. Lacking humor, and lasting only a proverbial heartbeat. Because this place was a sham, and he was going to get Aziraphale the hell out of it **once and for all**. And that was more important than breaking every last one of an Archangel’s perfect teeth.

He noted that they least they had the sense to look mildly uncomfortable as he stepped into the firestorm. He derived little satisfaction from it, too little too late. It would have been no consolation to Aziraphale, had he actually been the **victim**. _Fortunately _he’d had a demon to take his place. At least now Crowley was warm again, the chill of the wide-open hall had been getting to him. He did feel a smug sort of **satisfaction **when they jumped back from the flames he breathed at them. Shame no one got singed, and really a shame he couldn’t film it.

_It was almost as if they didn’t see this coming_. 

And then it was **over**. The Archangels were stunned, their tiny minds unable to comprehend that the angel they’d attempted to **immolate **was still cheerfully standing before them. Every ounce of _malicious _glee had been wiped from their faces, and they were practically tripping over each other in an effort to show him the door as quickly as angelically possible. No apologies or even excuses, just the pearly gates hastily slammed in his innocently grinning face.

Flames of rage still burned in Crowley’s chest, but for now he could contain them. It was **over**. He allowed himself a crooked smirk. _It had worked_. They were **free**. He was certain, somehow, that Aziraphale had succeeded too. Just a feeling, deep in his chest, that told him everything was going to be all right. 

Rolling his shoulders, he straightened the tartan bow tie at his neck, and for the second time in his existence Anthony J Crowley sauntered vaguely downward, to where his angel would be waiting.


End file.
